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More Like Him |
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By Margo Perry
The call came on a Monday evening. I was in bed nursing the last throes of a head-aching, nose-dribbling, hair-dampening battle with the flu and this high-pitched harangue was the last thing I needed.
Your husband’s been after my sister ever since she became his secretary, six months ago.
“My husband’s out. I have the flu. You’ll have to call back later.”
I don’t want to talk to him. I want to talk to you. You have to save my sister. He tells her that you’re too caught up in your own career to meet his needs.
I sneezed, blew my nose, and apologized. Nigel had insisted I give up my acting career before we married. I was now a volunteer at the local food bank. I had no career to be caught up in.
He has my sister’s head all screwed up and she’s agreed to go away with him this weekend.
“Their romantic getaway is none of my business. I don’t do sordid.”
You sound sick and I’m sorry. But, my sister’s forty years old, overweight and vulnerable. She’s never had a boyfriend and thinks the judge is the be all and end all. She thinks he’s going to divorce you and marry her. I think he’s going to take her away, fuck her brains out and then break her heart. She thinks she’s in love!
I was taken completely by surprise. My husband was a middle aged, balding, handsome, successful flirt, married to a woman twenty years his junior. His major weakness was jealousy. I never imagined he’d be so careless … so obvious.
His secretary?
I felt sicker than I had in days. Nauseous, like my heart was broken. Migraine’d like I’d just discovered I was married to a philandering old fool. The part of my brain that should have demanded proof of his duplicity seemed convinced by the depth and sincerity of this sister’s vexation.
You can’t sweep this under the rug. I’ve sent pictures to your phone. Proof. Selfies they took. I want you to look at them and tell me what you’re going to do about them.
I flipped to the pictures. One was of a woman perched on Nigel’s desk, holding camera aloft, memorializing the most passionate of kisses. Another was of my husband in his chambers, smile on, robe on, fully erect cock out and in the hands of this same woman. She was on her knees, between his legs, back to the camera.
I’d seen enough.
“Don’t scream at me. What I do with my husband is my business, so you’ll just have to leave the rest up to me. Goodbye.”
Stupid bitch!
That’s what I was - a stupid bitch, too angry and stuffed up to think straight. I lay in my own flop sweat for hours, wondering what to do about my predicament, my feelings, this deep sense of loss. There was something to be learned, something to be decided, but what? I remembered editing my marriage vows to exclude obedience. I remembered talking about monogamy as a choice. I recalled Nigel’s insistence that a faithful and equal marriage was the only one worth having. I fell into a coughing fit that expelled all my faith and trust in my marriage, along with the phlegm.
That night was difficult. Nigel hovered over me, filling the air with the soothing aroma of chicken soup he’d picked up from the gourmet shop on the corner. Fresh flowers appeared in a vase I didn’t recognize. He seemed sanguine, unmoved and untouched by the emotional storm raging inside me, and I realized that, as far as he was concerned, everything was fine. His life was as he wanted it. My life was my problem.
That’s what I’d have to learn … to be more like him.
I didn’t mention the phone call and he didn’t mention going away. I realized that that’s what I was waiting for.
That came two days later. He’d been sleeping in a guest room, but came to me early, suited and ready for his day. He marched around the room, seemingly agitated, but finally sat down on the bed and spoke.
“Marjorie is making you some breakfast. How are you feeling?”
Marjorie’s mother had worked for Nigel’s parents all his life. Marjorie started helping out, and was put on payroll, after failing to complete high school. She was said to be emotionally and intellectually disabled, but I didn’t agree. I believed that the school system had been incapable of giving her what she needed. When her mother and his parents died, all within one year of each other, Nigel inherited her service along with the house and she’d served him and his family well. She had a heart bigger than the grand homestead we lived in and her capacity for kindness was endless. I fell in love with her on first sight.
He was talking to me, but not looking at me. He wanted something.
“I feel much better,” I said. “I think I’m more than ready to get out of this bed. Tell Marjorie that I’ll be down for breakfast.”
Relief flooded his face. I knew what was coming.
“Good for you,” he enthused. “There’s a weekend conference in Pageant I’d like to attend. Judges and lawyers are scheduled to discuss dispute resolution. See if we can cut down on court appearances.”
“Aren’t you hosting poker night?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
All of the wives understood that poker night included dinner out, followed by a poker game and porn. We knew to be absent on these occasions.
“We’ll make sure not to bother you,” Nigel said, “and I’ll be leaving for the conference on Friday. I’ll ask Marjorie to stay the weekend.”
“There’s no need for Marjorie to give up her weekend.”
“I’m sure she’ll be glad to and it’ll make me feel better. Be a good girl, now. Rest, and get better.”
He kissed my forehead and hummed his way toward the bedroom door.
“See you tonight.”
“Indeed.”
From our bedroom window, I watched Nigel drive his car slowly out of the garage. He stopped and bent over the dashboard. I imagined him finding a rock station, playing loud music, a soundtrack for young men on wild adventures or older men in midlife crisis. Nigel was experiencing the best laid schemes of mice and men, before they went awry. I was experiencing the aftermath, the devastation. I looked until the car disappeared and took a deep breath. I was dizzy. I delayed the idea of a shower and returned to my bed, depressed, hot and bothered.
I wasn’t hungry, but was glad to hear Marjorie panting up the stairs. Being ill left me feeling dependent and lonely. That my husband was screwing around left me feeling undesirable and lost.
“I brought you some breakie. You gotta’ eat. Get your strength back.”
Marjorie set her tray of dry toast, tea, and a small dish of fruit on the bedside table and began to cluck and feel my forehead. Cluck and adjust my pillows. Finally satisfied, bed tidied, with me settled in a sitting position, she placed the tray in front of me.
“Eat,” she said. “I brought myself a cup.”
She poured tea for both of us and settled herself on the bed.
“I gotta’ take care of you, you know. Something’s wrong with you.”
“I’ve had this flu for three days now.”
I took a bite of toast and sipped the tea that was lemon tart, honey sweet and ginger tangy.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re just about better. Something else’s wrong with you that wasn’t wrong when I went home yesterday. I can feel it.”
I had a collie when I was a child and that dog knew what I was feeling before I did. The only entity that knew me even better was Marjorie. Without meaning to, I found myself babbling the truth, complete with pictures.
“Blessed Jesus!”
Marjorie crossed herself several times before pacing the floor.
“Just like his Pappy. I had to slap his hands away from my titties more than once. He laughed at me when I threatened to tell his wife, but he stopped his nonsense. His wife suffered, though. Caught that woman weeping and staring outta’ the window after him, just too many times. Don’t let yourself become that woman. It just ain’t fair.”
Marjorie held me tight. “You gotta’ cry before you can think.”
And I did. I laid my head on her ample breasts and sobbed my heart out for a long, long time.
“You’re no fool. You know that man loves you, but you gotta’ stop him. I hear those men talking when I serve them on poker nights. They all fool around. Sometimes they go away together and take girls. They think it’s alright, but it’s not.” She got off the bed. “Now think of something. Save your marriage and save that man from himself.”
I lay in the quiet most of the day, anger and self pity vying for prominence. Monogamy was like pregnancy. It was or it wasn’t and I alone had practiced fidelity. What a sham! I remembered when my first love had come to town on business. I’d dared dine with him, but had staunchly refused to go to his hotel room, even though I wanted to. Instead I’d rushed home to tell Nigel about the dinner, the invitation to fuck, and my refusal. He’d worn a smug smile for days.
Stupid bitch!
Yes, that’s what I was, but I pledged to fix that and soon. Nigel had redefined ours as an open marriage, without consultation or transparency. The only thing left for me was to accept his terms.
The day passed quickly. Released from cold and flu, my mind became a roller coaster of revenge fantasies, debilitating depression, and manic activity. Mostly, I was determined to survive this crisis and find my way back to happiness and self reliance. Nigel was now a stranger with whom I flirted and dined, but from whom I now kept secrets.
I formulated a plan.
Next morning, I called my best girlfriend and shared my woes and my remedy. She laughed nervously, called me brave and spent the day with me revitalizing my wardrobe, cutting my hair in a short style that left me all eyes and wonder.
We lunched at the most popular pick up bar and restaurant in the city. The room was filled with businessmen, lawyers, the crème of the pickup crème, and within minutes of being seated, I was approached by a handsome law clerk from my husband’s old law firm.
“Hello Mrs. Howe, lovely to see you.”
“Hi Carl, please sit. I’d like you to meet Sandy Mayers and please, call me Lisa.”
Greetings all around and soon we were sipping margaritas, eating pizza and laughing like old friends. I’d gone to the office to meet Nigel the first day that Carl joined the firm. There was a buzz. He was head of his class, and second generation with the firm.
“That young buck’s going to be nothing but trouble,” Nigel had grumbled.
“Why do you say that?” I’d pushed.
“Good looking, graduated head of his class, and arrogant. Just not a good fit. If his father hadn’t been a partner at one time, he wouldn’t be here.”
Because he couldn’t avoid it, he introduced us and then hustled me off to lunch. I’d forgotten how gorgeous Carl was. Gorgeous, and for my purposes, perfect!
“How’s the judge? We miss him around the office.”
“He’s busy enjoying his new challenges, and his old secretary.”
Silence descended over the table. Carl’s eyes told me that he was surprised I’d referenced the secretary, but there was no surprise at the reference to the affair. I guessed that I’d been the last to know, but I could no longer afford to care.
I looked across the table at Carl’s flawless café au lait skin, the fine fit of his athletic build in his dark designer suit, his tidy dreadlocks falling past his shoulders. He was perfect in every way. He oozed the charm and youth that had given Nigel pause and would again. Big time.
“Are you married Carl?”
“No. I’m not as lucky as you and the judge.”
“Is that what you think, Carl? That we’re lucky?”
“You’ve found the person you can commit to for the rest of your lives. Finding that kind of love is lucky, in my humble opinion.”
I looked into his young and trusting eyes. They were grey and exotic. I watched his hands curl around his cocktail glass and imagined them caressing my body.
“I really must run,” Sandy said. “I have to pick up my kid from school.”
“I’ll drive you back to your car,” I said. We’d come together and we’d leave together.
The waitress came and Carl claimed the bill.
“Could you meet me for a drink later? Maybe around six?”
“I could do seven. I have a meeting at six.”
“I’ll text you the address.”
“Nice meeting you,” Sandy said. “Thanks for lunch.”
“You, too, and you’re welcome.”
They shook hands.
“See you later,” I said, putting my arms around him, hugging him, pressing into him, staying until I felt his cock grow hard.
Poor Carl looked confused and anxious, but mostly aroused.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
I moved side to side, insinuating my large breasts against his chest, pressing my pussy across his hard cock. “I’m sure,” I whispered back, stepping away from him.
“See you later,” he said.
“Can’t wait,” I said.
As I followed Sandy to the door, I felt Carl’s eyes following us and rewarded him with an exaggerated sway of my hips.
“If you as much as talk to that man, Nigel is going to go crazy.”
“Like I’m going crazy now?”
Sandy made no comment. When we reached the Car Park, she hugged me tight before heading for her car.
I drove out of the parking lot, glad for the quiet. I wondered if I were literally crazy. I felt discarded. I felt revengeful. I felt horny. I felt needy. I wanted a man at my feet. My heart was beating too fast and my panties were damp from longing to touch and be touched. I needed trouble to make me feel alive and I had a plan.
Marjorie opened the door before I could use my key.
“You all right? I like your hair. Different. Real nice. Why don’t you let me bring you a glass of wine? You look nervous or something.”
“That would be great. I’m going out later. I need to decide what to wear.” I started for the bedroom.
“I’ll bring your wine up.”
I could never think of Marjorie as lacking. She had great wisdom and whatever the task she took on, it was well accomplished. I could bet my life that the glasses for Nigel’s poker guests were already laid out and sparkling. Pizza and wings had already been ordered as late night snacks. Cards were ready and Nigel’s porn choices stacked. Everything would have been taken care of by Marjorie. That she was close to illiterate seemed more a matter of the time and place she was born into and subsequent lack of opportunity.
I lifted my new red slinky number from its tissue paper, hung it up, and I set out the matching stiletto-heeled sandals. I felt hot again remembering how it had clung to my curves, elevated and proffered my ample breast flesh. My nipples were stinging, itching, elongated.
Marjorie handed me a glass of wine
“Have a glass,” I offered.
“Can’t. Have to work Master Nigel’s poker night. Got to be perfect.”
I took a few sips of wine and fell back on the bed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel so edgy.”
“You should feel bad. Your husband cheated on you. What you goin’ to do about it?”
Nigel, like his father, had sorely offended Marjorie’s sense of fair play.
“Don’t worry. I have a plan and I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“As soon as the game starts, I want you to meet me here.”
“Okay. You’ll tell me what to do next?”
“I will give you something to add to Nigel’s DVD collection.”
Marjorie looked so anxious to please. Her enormous breasts drew focus from her pretty china doll face. I believed that men took advantage of her, but she denied it, told me that she loved having sex.
“Has Nigel ever touched you or anything?”
Marjorie looked at me for a long time, her brown eyes moist, intent.
“You have two hours before you go out. Lie down. Let me give you a massage like I used to give Nigel’s mamma.”
“I’d love that, but did he ever …?”
I took off my clothes, took another taste of my wine and lay back on the bed in my bra and panties.
“A long time ago, he … we … , but not since you. Just relax. No more talk.”
Her hands were firm, but glove protected soft. They smelled of Chanel 5 lotion. I could feel myself relaxing and then falling into a warm well of pleasure. Her hands were genius and I gave myself to them as they skilfully relaxed muscle after muscle.
Eventually, she unclasped my bra, cupped each freed breast and began to gently twist my elongated nipples. Erotic pleasure shot through my nervous system to settle in my pussy. I could feel my pelvic muscles contracting and releasing, involuntarily reaching for orgasm.
Her hands moved from my waist to my ass, kneading and then stroking. Fingers tickled the crack of my ass and slipped between my legs. I could feel my heat, feel my juices leaking onto her prying fingers. I wanted more. I groaned, turned over, and spread my legs.
She was waiting, her eyes glinting with lust. I lifted my hips and she pulled down my panties. She suckled my teat, licked, nibbled with her teeth. Her fingers found my swollen clit and rolled over it, expertly. Her fingers found their way inside my pussy and reached regions of volcanic pleasure.
“Oh God,” I moaned. “Is this what you did to Nigel’s Mom?”
“And this,” she said, moving quickly between my legs.
Her tongue whipped my clit. Her fingers were twisting my nipples, my breasts were heaving, threatening to burst with erotic fever. Three fingers were now fucking my pussy hard. I could feel her heat and wetness through her dress, as she thrust her pussy against my leg.
“Oh God, I’m coming. I’m coming, Marjorie. You come, too, Marjorie. I can’t wait.”
Her groan mixed with my scream as I came and came. Hot liquid spilled from my pussy and I wept tears of release and satisfaction.
Marjorie disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared with a warm washcloth. She cleaned me up as though I were a tender infant.
“I’ll meet you here when the game starts,” she said, earnestly. And then she disappeared.
I picked up the phone and called Nigel to check in. He was still in his office. Yes, the boys were meeting at The Steakhouse for dinner and then coming back here for poker and porn. Everything was on schedule.
I headed for the shower, determined that my plan go off without a hitch.
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